the cold howl

the way the wind 

carries itself

like a memory

along the edges of

a lost mind

I twist open 

the pain of being

your fingers

so frail, they’ve lost

that way of being kind

your eyes

so close to closed, you’re 

unaware the coming sleep

confusion—you don’t even know 

you’re confused 
I too have forgotten

I keep thinking you’re dead

but then I see a memory

& there’s a sharp pain

that accompanies

the demented living
I feel I’ve had torn from 

my chest more living

than dead souls—
it’s a legacy I will end. 
can I scream louder

just so this echo, mine,

never ends? 
what have I understood & known?
the art of non existence. 

the art of invisibility. 

the art of agony. 

the art of crumbling into ruins. 
but, these are not art. 
the self



in the


all is too quiet

in the dead of 

the living lonely. 


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